


As Roses Scatter

by Zdenka



Category: Justice to Believe - Nana Mizuki (PV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dancer and a nobleman’s son seek revenge. Swordfights, roses, and a witch’s cursed mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Roses Scatter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VampirePaladin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampirePaladin/gifts).



> This story is based on a music video (link [here](http://nanamv.blogspot.com/2012/10/pv-justice-to-believe.html)). A translation of the words may be found [here](http://www.animelyrics.com/game/wildarms5/justicetobeli.htm) (let me know if you know of a better one).

In the abandoned cloister overgrown with grass, a woman dances. A bloodstained red dress clings to her body; there is a rose in her dark hair. She dances in the light of the torches, dances for one man alone: the one who lies at peace in the darkened chapel, sword and pistol clasped to his breast. As she dances, she sings their story to the uncaring night.

* * *

She had another name in her own country, but here they called her Mariana. She was dressed as a servant, and there was a knife hidden beneath her dress, next to her skin. She meant to drive its blade into the heart of the Count of Malferit.

His lordship the Count was dining outside today, and she waited with the servants of his house to be summoned to serve his meal. A male servant – not one of the ones from the kitchens – was watching her from across the courtyard. She smiled at him and tried to look harmless, while her grip tightened on the tray. Apparently her efforts weren’t enough, for he approached and scrutinized her narrowly.

“Come here for a moment.” She did not dare disobey as he drew her away from the others. Bending close to her, he said in a low voice, “The Count’s guards search everyone who approaches him. You’ll be caught.”

She could not entirely hide her look of shock. “What?”

“Give it up. I won’t tell anyone, if you leave now.”

She glared at him. “I’m not leaving.” The other servants glanced over. She was keenly aware of the guard’s eyes watching them.

“As you like.” The next thing she knew, he stumbled, bumping into her with all his weight. She staggered and regained her balance, but she could not stop the bowl from sliding to the floor. It shattered, and the soup splashed on her skirt. She gave a cry of dismay.

“What are you doing, you clumsy oafs?” the guard demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Don’t you work in the stables? Go back there and stop bothering the servant girls. And you, girl, clean that up and change your clothing. You can’t appear before the Count like that.” The stableman, if so he was, bowed his head and murmured an apology. Mariana hastily picked up the pieces of the broken bowl and followed the man before he could disappear from sight.

A turn of the path left them temporarily alone. “Why did you do that?” she demanded, her voice shaking with anger.

“Not here.” He walked on with long strides. She had to hurry to catch up.

They found a spot concealed by a strand of drooping cypresses, and he turned to face her. “I saw the knife under your dress,” he said quietly. “The guards would have seen it too. You would have failed, and you would have died.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“To die attaining revenge is one thing. But I thought you should not die for nothing.”

“Even if they had caught and killed me,” she said through her teeth, “the Count would have died also.”

He frowned. “How – ah. You poisoned his food?”

She looked flatly back at him, revealing nothing.

“The Count uses a taster. He knows that any man who acts as he does is likely to garner enemies. I’ve been watching him for a very long time.”

“Watching him? Why?”

“I could tell,” he answered, “even before I saw the knife. Vengeance calls to vengeance. What is in your heart is the same as mine.”

“This is a trick -- you’ll betray me to the Count --”

“I swear I will not, by my father’s desecrated grave.” His eyes were earnest. She set her jaw and turned away. He frowned and stepped closer. “Do you know how to use that knife?” 

“You stab people with it, if you want them to die.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but there’s more to it than that.” He looked away, considering, then back at her. “I’ll teach you. To fight with sword and pistol. Knives too, if you like.”

She didn’t understand. “Why are you doing this?”

“The Count killed my father.” 

She stared at him for a long moment. “And desecrated his grave?”

“No,” he said flatly. “It was another man who did that.” He hesitated a moment. “Who is it – the one you’re trying to avenge? Your lover?”

“My brother,” she was surprised to hear herself saying. “He looked after the Count’s hunting dogs. One of the Count’s favorite dogs died of an illness, and the Count had him whipped so savagely that he died of it.”

He bowed his head. “I am sorry for your loss.” The words seemed to be spoken with all sincerity. Mariana felt tears sting her eyes and blinked them away. He held out his hand to her. “Come with me. We will have justice, I swear it.” Slowly, she placed her hand in his and gripped it in sign of their promise.

* * *

“My name is Alvaro,” he said as she walked beside him.

She waited a moment to see if he would continue. “That’s all?”

“There is somewhat more to it,” he admitted. “An ancient name, and one that has been honorable – though fallen lately into ill repute. It doesn’t matter now. And your name?”

“Mariana.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s enough,” she retorted.

There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Mariana, then.” He inclined his head gravely, courtly as if they were meeting upon a dance floor in the King’s palace.

They walked in silence for a time, until he spoke again. “Meeting you like this,” he said thoughtfully. “It changes my plans.”

“How so?”

“I have been watching the Count for a long time, waiting for my opportunity. But now I need a method that will let us kill the Count and live.”

“That wasn’t part of your plan before?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t expect to survive my revenge. It didn’t matter to me.”

“So what’s different now?”

“I will not take your life down with mine.”

She stared at him. “I didn’t ask you to protect me!”

“I will not,” he repeated flatly. “I may have committed great sins, but I will not throw away an innocent’s life to no purpose.”

“I’m no more an innocent than you are,” she retorted.

He was silent for a long moment. “I fear,” he said, “that is not the case. But you wish to survive your revenge, do you not?”

“Yes,” she said defiantly. “I want to live. And let the Count rot in his grave!”

He gave a small smile. “May it be so.”

* * *

He brought her to a ruined monastery on the outskirts of the city. The walls were overgrown with briars, and she saw no way in until he lifted a branch and moved it aside to reveal a door. “It’s like an enchanted castle,” she said in amazement as she followed him inside. “Are there knights sleeping under a spell? Will the Elf-King appear if I pluck a rose?”

“There is a crypt, but the family’s name is lost. If any knights lie there, they are dead and will not awaken. And sorcery,” he said with emphasis, “is accursed.”

Mariana wondered briefly at his reaction. She trailed her fingers across a stone wall carved with a crumbling coat of arms. The motto was faded and she could not read it. “You must tell me a story,” she said lightly, “to go with the enchanted castle.”

He did not turn to look at her. His boots made a muffled sound on the stone floor. “Once there was a young man who met a witch. She told him, ‘You must never give your heart to anyone, whether man or woman. If you ever fall in love, you will surely die that very moment.’”

“That’s not much of a story.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He opened a wooden door, banded with iron, and stepped through into the chapel. Sunlight was streaming through the stained glass windows, casting fragments of colors upon the floor, gules and vert and azure like painted shields in heraldry. 

She drew in her breath. “It’s beautiful.”

“We can practice outside in the cloister. Or in here, if it’s raining.”

“How do I start?”

“First,” he said, “you must learn how to stand.” His fingers took her shoulders, carefully guiding her into position. He did not seem to know she was a woman; she might have been one of the carved wooden saints that looked down upon them from their niches.

* * *

Over the next days and weeks, she began to learn the rudiments of swordsmanship. She smiled when he expressed surprise at her lightness of foot. “You never asked what I did before you brought me here. I earned my bread by dancing.”

“Dancing won’t kill the Count,” he said severely. “Try that lunge again.”

Though Mariana claimed she could move well enough in her skirts, Alvaro declared them too awkward. He went into town and returned with a pair of breeches, a ruffled shirt, and a long embroidered coat. When they needed provisions or news, she tucked her long hair beneath a cap and accompanied him as a young man. She wondered if he might demand a price from her for his teaching, but he treated her with impeccable courtesy. At night, they went to separate cells, chaste as two monks.

* * *

Mariana didn’t know what the room had been when the monks inhabited this place, but Alvaro had converted it into an armory. She went there after a practice session to put away their weapons, and her eye fell on something she hadn’t noticed before. A wooden box, bound with iron, sat in a dark corner of the room. It smelt faintly of decay, like a swamp, although the boards looked sound and unrotted. She touched it curiously and thought – was she only imagining it? – she heard a faint humming in the air.

“Don’t touch that!” She turned around. Alvaro stood in the doorway behind her. He strode to her and grasped her arm, pulling her away. He did not release his grip until they were out of the room, the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

“What is it?” Some treasure, perhaps? A family heirloom that he didn’t want displayed to the eyes of strangers?

“You must never touch that box, or go near it,” he said harshly. “Promise me that you will never open it!” He bent his head. “I should have destroyed it – but afterwards, I never wanted to think of it again. Though I do think of it often, and of my sin.”

Mariana rubbed her arm. It was the first time he had ever been rough with her. “But what is it? It’s just a box – not very large – what could be inside it that’s so terrible?”

He sighed. “I will tell you. But not here where it’s dark. Let’s go outside.” She had never known him to be superstitious. She followed him into the grassy space in the center of the cloister. They sat in the sunlight, leaning their backs against the sun-warmed wall. 

Alvaro tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. He began slowly, but gradually became more animated as the story carried him along. “When my father died, I had no hope of avenging him. I was still young, while the Count was too powerful and always on his guard. In despair, I left my country and travelled wherever my steps might take me. I met the people of many lands and saw many strange and marvelous things – but that is not what I mean to speak of. At last I came to a city set upon the sea, where the roads are made of water.”

“Are there no people in the city, then?” Mariana inquired. “Or are they all fish, or mermaids?”

He frowned at her levity. “They use boats to travel through the city, as we use horses here. There is nothing truly dry – every wooden beam has a trace of rot, every stone is speckled with clinging moss. And every year, the water rises a little more. They say that the entire city would fall back into the sea, except that once a year the lord who rules there throws a ring into the waves and promises himself in the city’s stead if the sea wishes to take him.”

Mariana shuddered. “Who would make such a promise?” she asked in a low voice.

“It is only a story,” Alvaro replied, “and I do not know the truth of it, or what bargains they have made. I return now to what my own eyes have seen. While I was there, I heard rumor of a witch who dwelt in the city. It was said she was so powerful that she could draw down the moon from the sky, that she could force the dead to speak and reveal all their secrets. I sought her out. I found her at last, in a dank, dripping cavern beneath the city. She tried to frighten me, but I withstood her tests. At last she agreed to hear me out. And I – fool that I was – I asked her if there was any way to give life to the dead.

“‘Go to the golden church in the great square and ask the priests,’ she said mockingly. ‘Do they not lay claim to such miracles?’

“‘They cannot help me,’ I said, ‘for they will tell me to forgive my enemies and await the life to come; and my desire is for vengeance now.’

“‘There is a way,’ she said, ‘to give a semblance of life to a dead man. He will rise and speak and walk about. But I do not think it is what you wish.’

“‘I came here,’ I said fiercely, ‘with no other purpose.’

“‘There is a price,’ she warned me.

“‘Whatever it is, I will pay it,’ I said boldly. She told me what it was; and I agreed without question. My heart was full of hatred and despair, and it did not seem possible that I should ever regret what I gave up.” He glanced sidelong at Mariana. “At the time I did not count the cost, being young and foolish; but lately I have begun to think that perhaps the price was too high.”

Mariana only wanted him to finish the story. “What happened?” she demanded, dread coiling in her stomach. “What did the witch do?”

Alvaro bowed his head and continued. “The witch put a black mask into my hands. ‘Put this on the face of the dead man,’ she said, ‘and he will live – if you call that life.’ And she laughed horribly. But I would not turn back. I took the accursed thing and thanked her. And later, when I was able, I returned to my own country and went to my father’s grave.” Mariana drew in her breath sharply, guessing what was to come. He nodded. “Yes. I violated his peace -- may God forgive me -- and disturbed the holy resting-place of his bones. I set the mask upon him, as the witch had told me.”

His fingers clenched on the grass, digging into the earth beneath. “He had been dead too long. What rose to greet me was not a man, but bones poorly covered by flesh and tattered skin. He could walk and speak, but it was not life. He attacked me at first, but when he knew me, he begged for release.” He swallowed. “I loved my father. I could not refuse what he asked of me.”

Mariana was silent, feeling words were inadequate. The roses tossed gently in the light breeze. A bee came droning by, flew upward, and was lost to view again. Alvaro’s story seemed incredible, but he was not one to lie. His hand rested inches from hers. She dared to place her own hand over it and hold it until some of the tension left his shoulders.

At last he stirred, withdrawing his hand. “The pistol I carry was his. I keep it with me to remind me that I cannot die until I have balanced my sin by avenging my father.”

“We will avenge him,” Mariana said quietly. “Your father and my brother both.”

Alvaro’s face was remote. “We will,” he agreed. “We must.”

* * *

She continued to practice with sword and pistol under Alvaro’s exacting eye. They did not speak of the mask again, or his strange revelations. Instead they spoke of how to plan their revenge. “We need something to distract him,” Alvaro said seriously. “Something to put him off his guard.”

Mariana smiled. “Leave that to me,” she said.

“How so?”

She tossed him a challenging look. “Have you forgotten my other skills? I know the dances of my own country, the ones they do here, and half-a-dozen places in between.”

He frowned dubiously. “Do you dance well enough to draw the Count’s eye?”

She turned without speaking and went to her room, where she put on the red dress with ruffles which was still packed carefully among her things, and the red leather boots which went with it.

He stared at her when she returned. “What are you doing?”

“You asked how I am as a dancer,” she retorted. “I’ll let you judge for yourself.” And she danced – as lightly as a rose petal floating on the wind, as fiercely as a warrior on the battlefield. She danced with her whole heart, because she could not do otherwise.

She finished the dance with her head thrown back and her arms stretched upward. She held the pose for a moment, then looked to Alvaro for his reaction. He smiled in admiration, his stern face softening. She smiled in return and went toward him, her dancing boots tapping lightly on the floor. He made a motion to draw back and his habitual solemn expression returned, like setting a mask back into place. “Yes,” he said abruptly, “I think that will catch his attention.” He rose and left the room. Mariana twisted the cloth of her skirts between her fingers, swallowing her disappointment. _He can think of nothing else until we have our revenge._ And afterwards? She did not dare think of after. She went back to her room and changed back into her boy’s clothing. When she next saw Alvaro, he was grave and reserved as ever.

* * *

At last he declared her skills sufficient. The days of planning were nearly over; it was time to act. They went by night to observe the Count’s grand house, marking the paths through the grounds, the patterns and times of the guard patrols, the location of windows. Twice they went and returned safely, but on the third night a guard spotted them and raised the alarm. They ran. Alvaro knew the area well and led the guards on a merry chase until they lost the track.

The two of them paused at last, gasping for breath, in the shelter of a stone wall draped with a clambering branch of pink roses. Mariana laughed silently, with sheer joy at their escape and his presence beside her. To her surprise, Alvaro plucked a rose and presented it to her with a courtly gesture. “Most fair and valiant lady—“ With wonder she saw something in his expression that she had longed for, a warmth in his eyes that had never been there before. She reached to take the rose from him, and their fingertips brushed together.

Everything seemed to happen at once. A slight widening of his eyes, the sudden motion as he threw himself behind her, the pistol shot too close and too loud, and then he was sliding to the ground, a red stain blossoming on his chest.

He pulled his pistol, his father’s pistol from his belt with a trembling hand and pressed it into her hands. His eyes were urgent on hers. “Mariana, you must – ” His head fell back. One of the guards had followed them after all. He raised his pistol to take aim again. She ducked out of the way; the bullet ricocheted off the wall behind her, scattering petals from the roses. And then she was upon him, drawing her sword. She had Alvaro’s pistol, but she wanted to avenge him with the skills he gave her. The Count’s guard barely drew his sword in time. She dueled him there, as the sharp tang of gunpowder mingled with the scent of roses. He was a skilled swordsman, but she fought like one possessed. At last she ended the combat by passing her blade neatly through his heart.

She returned to Alvaro, her heart still beating quickly from her exertions. He lay where he had fallen, his head lolling to one side. She knelt beside him and brushed a rose petal from his cheek. There was no pulse in his throat. She sought again, with shaking hands. She could find no heartbeat, and his chest was still. Mariana knelt there frozen, too stricken to weep.

* * *

She returned to the deserted cloister and carried his body to an empty place in the monastery’s crypt. She did not know what forgotten men and women lay beneath the stone floor, but she thought they would not begrudge him room at their side. She washed away the blood, smoothed back his hair, and crossed his hands neatly over his breast. His body was already cooling. She could not bear the silent emptiness of the cold room, the absence of life in his face. She sprang to her feet and almost ran out into the grassy space beneath the sky.

Later, she knelt with bowed head beside the unknown family’s coat of arms, sheathed sword clasped in her hand, and then she knelt in prayer in the chapel. It was only when she found herself whispering “Forgive me for what I am about to do” that she knew she had already reached her decision. 

She went into the armory and opened the wooden box that smelt of decay. Inside was a black leather mask, shaped to cover the upper half of the face. It curved to two points, perhaps meant to imply horns or an animal’s ears. She swallowed and lifted it from the box. The moment she touched it, she felt more than heard a faint buzzing at the very edge of her hearing, like wasps deep within the hive.

Holding the mask, she walked with firm steps to where Alvaro lay upon the cold stone. “God and all you saints,” she whispered, “let the punishment be mine. Let it not be a taint on his soul.” She stooped to kiss his cold lips once, and then she placed the mask over his face. She lifted his head to tie the strings tightly – no good in them coming undone – and stepped back. There was a flash of red light from under the mask. As she stood watching, hardly daring to breathe, one of Alvaro’s limp hands suddenly convulsed.

* * *

As the Count of Malferit rode through the winding streets with his retinue, a woman was dancing in the main square of the town. She threw her entire body into the dance, and red boots flashed beneath her red dress when she swirled her skirts. The Count reined in his horse to watch her. After a few minutes, he leaned over and murmured something in the ear of one of his guards before resuming his progress. When the Count’s guards half-invited, half-ordered her to attend him, she gave a low curtsey and professed herself entirely honored.

In the evening, she danced before the Count again, this time in his private chambers. He leaned back indolently in his chair, but she could feel his eyes watching her.

At last he stood. “Come here.” He did not expect to be disobeyed.

She slipped away from him. “It is hot in here, your Excellency. Let me open the window.” She flung the casement wide. The moon shone dimly through the clouds, and a light rain scattered droplets on her face. And Death climbed over the sill, in the form of a man with a mask. The Count drew breath to call his guards, but Alvaro did not give him time. He drew the pistol from his belt and fired. The Count fell backward with a cry.

That summoned the guards, but Alvaro had tossed Mariana her sword. She drew and charged forward, Alvaro only a pace behind. Several of the guards had fallen when Alvaro was able to put his shoulder to the door and close it, while Mariana slid the bolt home. It would not hold them long, but long enough.

The Count lay where he had fallen, but there was still life in his eyes. Mariana shivered at the spreading red stain on his chest. She drove her sword home, making sure of him, and watched the light in his eyes be extinguished like a candle.

Alvaro waited for her by the window, his hand resting on the grappling hook with its attached rope. They climbed out, found their horses, and were away into the misty night before the guards could follow.

They were in sight of the old monastery, when Mariana turned to speak to him and found his horse riderless. He had slipped from the saddle somehow, between one breath and the next. She looked frantically back and forth and saw him walking away from her, his dark cloak wrapped around him like a shroud. She called after him but he did not stop. The night seemed to swallow him up.

Mariana awoke the next morning with a hollow feeling at her heart before she could remember why. The red dress, thrown aside beside her pallet, was stained with the Count’s blood. She rose, splashed water on her face, and dressed in her boy’s clothing and the embroidered coat Alvaro had bought for her.

He was not there. She searched every foot of the cloister, then paced the halls again. She turned around hopefully more than once, thinking she heard his footsteps, but it was only the creaking of the old building, or a dry briar tapping against the wall in a gust of wind. When she reached the armory, the mask’s empty box seemed to mock her. She found the rose he had given her and stared at it blankly. At some point in her restless journey through the stone halls, it fell from her hand.

She cleaned her sword meticulously, though she had done that already when she returned the night before, and practiced swordsmanship, running through the exercises alone. Her memory supplied his voice giving corrections or encouragement, his touch on her shoulder.

As night fell, she was tired but too agitated to rest. Their revenge was attained, they had their justice, but how could it be a victory? Her chest ached as if she were the one who had been shot. What would she do if he did not return? She sat in the deserted chapel, her back pressed against the wall, her face averted from the carved saints. At last she fell into an exhausted doze.

* * *

She awoke near midnight, with the certainty that Alvaro had returned. She imagined him walking down the familiar passageway, saw his boot crush the discarded rose. And then she looked up and he was there. 

“Alvaro?” Her voice trembled. She struggled to her feet, stiff from sleeping in an awkward position.

Behind the mask, there was no recognition in his eyes. He drew his sword. She bowed her head, then took up her own sword and raised it in salute. He lunged at her, and their blades met, clashing together. They fought there under the half-pitying, half-amused eyes of the wooden saints in their niches. There was no hesitation in his attacks. She parried fiercely, feinted, but could not bring herself to wound him. Would driving her sword through his dead flesh kill him a second time? And then she knew what she must do.

She slashed at the side of his head. He ducked aside, but she was not aiming at his flesh. With its ties cut, the mask slipped from his face and fell. He swayed on his feet, uncertain. There was still no recognition in his eyes. He returned to the attack with redoubled fury, and she was beaten back. She stumbled and fell to one knee beside the altar. He raised his sword for the killing blow, brought it down swiftly.

Her arm trembled, but she held firm, as the metal of his sword screeched against the barrel of the pistol which she used to parry the blow. It was the one he gave her, pressing it into her hands as he lay dying. He gazed at the pistol with a faintly puzzled expression, then he slowly raised his head. She could see in his eyes that he knew her now.

“Mariana, what did you do?” he asked quietly.

“I brought you back from death,” she told him, because she had never lied to him. “To complete our revenge. And because I love you.”

He shook his head with a sad smile. “I can remember touching your hand, the wind in my hair, the warmth of sunlight. But I cannot remember what it felt like to feel those things. My heart does not beat. I cannot sleep. I cannot rest. There is only a weariness that does not end. Put an end to it, Mariana. Send me back to the grave where I belong.”

Because she loved him, she did as he asked. She raised the pistol. He closed his eyes and slowly bowed his head. She pressed the trigger and watched him return to the cold arms of death.

* * *

When she has laid out his body for the second time, she goes outside and lights all the torches, setting the empty cloister ablaze with light. She dons her dancer’s dress and sets a blood-red rose in her hair. She dances for him one more time, until the sun comes up. As she dances, her clinging despair falls away. Her sorrow is a fresh pain, like a wound at her heart, but no longer devouring. By the time the sun rises, it becomes possible to imagine the future stretching ahead of her, the new path of the life she must make without him.


End file.
